I had just stepped out of the house to come to you. I saw the sunflowers with their faces turned toward the sun, and I remembered: this is the very sorrow of human life, the whole ache, the entire anguish—that we fail to turn our face toward our sun. We stand all our life with our back to truth. Whoever stands with his back to the sun finds that his own shadow becomes his darkness. If your back is to the sun, your shadow will fall before you and your path will be dark. But the one who turns toward the sun—his shadow dissolves behind him, and his eyes and his way grow full of light.
There are two kinds of people in the world: the many who keep their backs to the sun, and the few who turn their faces to it. For those who stand turned away, life is nothing but sorrow, pain, and death—no more than a nightmare of suffering. They only exist in name. Their joy is all in fantasy. Their faith is invested in hopes. Their actual attainments are almost zero. But for those who face the sun—face the divine—an inner revolution takes place. Our sole misfortune is simply this: our back is to the very direction where our face should be.
There are reasons, of course, why what should happen does not, and what should not happen goes on happening. For three days we shall inquire only into this: how to turn our face to the sun. What stops us? What binds us? What states of mind become hurdles to finding and attaining ourselves? We shall look into them—and also how to remove them.
The first thing I want to say is this: only those people, only those souls can turn toward truth who free their minds from all debates, from all the prevailing doctrines and dogmas about truth, from the widely proclaimed institutions, sects, and churches about truth. The one who becomes bound by theism or atheism, who gets entangled in any “isms” about truth, becomes incapable of accessing truth or even lifting his eyes toward it.
This is the most important point, for today the earth is strewn with hundreds of sects—hundreds of claims about truth, each declaring that what they say alone is true and the rest is false. Their proclamations, their denials, their arguments have broken human beings into countless fragments. And the moment you accept any one of these notions, the mind is bound, narrowed, and it becomes impossible to lift your eyes toward the boundless.
You too must be standing somewhere—behind some sect, some religion, some denomination; a follower of some temple or church. Since childhood you accepted ideas that others poured into you—what society and sect propagated and imprinted on your mind. Remember, if you are bound in any way to any side, whatever else may happen, the experience of truth will not.
How can one who ties himself to a notion know that truth for which no notion is possible? One who moors himself to the shore—how will he sail that ocean where all shores must be let go? Without impartiality, no one can be in favor of truth. The greatest obstacle to the freedom of inquiry is precisely these sanctioned, traditional dogmas. Scriptures and words obstruct. Ideas and ideologies become chains—when what is needed is the mind’s release. Upon the mind, no bondage, no imposition should remain.
If the eyes are filled with prior images, I will be unable to see you. If a mirror clutches at pictures, it cannot reflect others. A society that accepts without knowing truth is unable to reflect it. The mind must be utterly innocent, unbiased, and clear. Only then can the eyes lift in that direction; only then can the boat of awareness set sail toward the ocean of bliss.
So first: let inquiry be free and independent. Today, there are very few on this earth whose inquiry is truly free.
I heard a little story. Entirely fanciful—but worth pondering.
A Sufi fakir once dreamt that he had reached heaven. A great celebration was underway. The roads were adorned, countless lamps lit, flowers lined the pathways, palaces and avenues glowed. He asked passersby, “What is today? Is there a ceremony?” He was told, “It is God’s birthday, and his procession is about to begin.” He stood near a tree.
A magnificent parade began. In front, astride a horse, sat a luminous being. “Who is this radiant one?” he asked. “This is Jesus the Christ,” they said, “followed by his millions upon millions of devotees.” After him came another exalted figure. “And who is this?” “This is Prophet Muhammad,” they replied, “with his multitudes behind him.” Then came Buddha, then Mahavira, then Zarathustra, then Confucius—and behind each, uncountable followers. When the entire procession had passed, at the very end came a frail, poor-looking old man on a horse—with no one behind him. “Who is this?” he asked. “This,” they said, “is God himself.” Startled, he awoke—shaken.
What was a dream then is reality now on this earth. People are with Christ, with Buddha, with Rama, with Krishna—but with God, none. One who is with God needs no intermediary. And remember: one who is with God is inevitably with Christ—but one who is with Christ is not necessarily with God. One who is with God is with Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira altogether—but one who is with them is not necessarily with God.
Also remember: the one who is “with” Buddha and “against” Krishna, who is “with” Christ and “against” Rama, who is “with” Mahavira and “against” Confucius—he can never be with God. One who is with God is with them all at once.
Let this be remembered within: truth cannot be many; truth can only be one. And if you would be with that one truth, then you must renounce the many notions that parade under its name. Before anyone can be religious, he must stop being a Jain, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. Before one can be religious, he must step aside from the sects that pose as religion. The farther from them, the closer to religion; the more entangled in them, the farther from it. This is natural—and natural as well because a truth accepted from others is not truth for you.
Of all things concerning truth, the most vital is this: only self-experienced truth is truth; second-hand truth turns false. No one can hand over truth to another. Truth is not a property that can be transferred. It cannot be borrowed, stolen, or begged. Truth is the one treasure that must be gained by oneself—there is no other way.
Long ago, in a certain kingdom, a young man performed such daring deeds that the emperor was overjoyed. He promised him the highest office and the highest honor of the realm—a dignity not conferred for three hundred years. The youth should have been pleased. But people told the king he was not. The king summoned him: “For three centuries no one has received this honor. I am bestowing the highest glory of the kingdom upon you. Yet I hear you are not pleased?”
The young man said, “I do not want wealth, nor office, nor fame. I ask for something else. If the kingdom can grant it, I will be fulfilled.” The king said, “Ask. I will give it—even if it takes the whole power of the state.”
The youth said, “Give me truth.” The king fell silent for a moment. “Forgive me,” he said, “I do not have it to give. I myself do not know truth, and all the power and treasure of my kingdom cannot buy it. For if kingdoms could purchase truth, then those who renounced kingdoms to seek it were fools. If wealth could buy truth, then those who kicked wealth aside to pursue it were mad. And if truth could be had by asking, then the ascetics who labored in austerity were in error.
“No—truth cannot be asked for. I see no way anyone can give it. I do not have truth—how could I give it? But I have heard of a sage in the mountains who has attained. I will bow at his feet and plead on your behalf.”
The king took the youth into the mountains. Bowing, he prayed, “I pledged to grant whatever this young man asked, but he has asked for truth—and I do not have it. I have come to you: please give him truth.” The sage fell silent as the king had, then said, “Truth is the one thing no one can give another. The day truth can be given, it will cease to be truth. Truth is not given; it must be realized.”
Yet the “truths” we clutch are not realized, but received. Whatever religions you have “accepted,” you did not discover; they were handed down—by tradition, by parents, by culture. What is handed down cannot be truth. Most people spend a lifetime living by such donated “truth”—there is no greater deprivation.
Remember it well: whatever is given to you cannot be truth. The first step toward truth is to reject what has been given. If atheism has been given, drop atheism; if theism has been given, drop theism.
In Soviet Russia, two hundred million people have, for forty years, been trained in atheism. Through education, propaganda, literature, they teach their youth that there is no God, no soul; liberation and religion are opium. Forty years of propaganda have convinced two hundred million minds that atheism is truth and theism is folly.
You will say their view is wrong; I say: your view is also wrong. If forty years of propaganda can install atheism, then your theism too can be installed by four thousand years of propaganda. Their atheism is hollow; your theism is no less so. That is why you may call yourself religious, attend temple and worship—yet no ray of religion appears in your life. No one else’s donated religion can ever be alive in you; it remains only a mental stance, an opinion.
Inquiry must be free. Free from what? From conditioning, from culture, from sect. Those bound by conditioning, by society, by creed—their feet are pegged to the ground; they cannot fly the open sky. Their boat is chained to the shore; they cannot voyage the ocean of bliss.
People flee society and become renunciates. I know hundreds who left home and family. When I meet them, I say: running away won’t help if society’s imprints sit in the mind; then society sits inside you. Leaving parents is useless if their beliefs live within you—you are still with them.
Leaving society does not mean leaving the village for the forest. It means dropping the beliefs society has given you. This takes great courage. Inquiry is the greatest courage in this world. Leaving your parents is not as hard as leaving their conditioning. Why? Because we fear being alone. In the crowd, we are not alone—thousands stand with us. The crowd convinces us: if so many believe it, it must be true. Crowds can validate even foolishness. With a crowd behind them, people do what they would never do alone.
The greatest crimes in history were committed not by individuals alone but by crowds. A crowd can sin because it seems what is being said must be right—so many agree; can so many be wrong? If a religion says, “Let us attack that country; this is holy war; we go to spread the faith,” an individual told to kill thousands might hesitate, might reflect. But seeing millions beside him, he drops his own discernment: so many can’t be mistaken. That is why we fear leaving the crowd—because leaving means reconsidering our whole way of seeing. So people cling to crowds. Everyone clings.
But remember: one who is not ready to be alone—free of the crowd—should give up on truth. Truth’s path is utterly solitary. People think “alone” means withdrawing to the mountains, or leaving home. Alone means: drop the crowd’s support. Free of the crowd, you become alone. Inquiry requires courage; courage is the condition for truth. Without courage we crawl on the earth; we cannot soar. Without courage we lug around borrowed truths; we cannot seek our own. And one who has no truth of his own—does he truly live? His life has no meaning, no significance. Only when truth is yours does light dawn, for truth, like a lamp, illumines the whole of life.
So the first key: free your inquiry from life’s conditioning, from cultural imprints; make it your own, personal; understand truth as a direct relationship between you and the divine. Your family, your sect, your community have no place in it. This is the first breaking of chains.
The first key was freedom of inquiry.
Second—inseparable from inquiry—is the awakening of courage.
We are weak, impoverished, powerless. Our weakness, poverty, and lack of courage together block our movement, our ascent. But if we can gather even a little courage, a little strength, a little daring—movement becomes possible.
And know this: however weak one may be, everyone can take one step. Perhaps not a thousand miles, perhaps not the Himalayas—but one step anyone can take. If we summon a little courage, one step is certain.
And whoever can take one step can climb the Himalayas; whoever can take one step can walk thousands of miles. In this universe, there is never more than one step to take—no one has ever taken two at once. It is only ever one step. The strength to take one step is enough—and that much strength every living person has. It only needs to be gathered.
Our courage, our energy, lies scattered. We fail to collect it. Why? Perhaps because our “inquiry” has never become thirst—only a mental itch. Many ask me, “Is there a God?” “Is there a soul?” If I say, “Will you walk a hundred steps with me, then I will answer,” they say, “I don’t have the time.” If I say, “Will you stay with me for three days?” they say, “We don’t have three days.”
An inquiry that is merely intellectual—a cerebral scratching—cannot muster courage. Courage gathers only in those whose inquiry becomes longing, thirst.
A young man once went to Buddha: “I have come to know truth.” Buddha asked, “What price will you pay? Truth can be known—but what will you give?” Another went to Christ: “Is there God?” Jesus said, “You can know—but what price will you pay? Go, give away all your possessions and return; I assure you, you will be led toward truth.” The young man said, “Give away my wealth? Then I must reconsider!” He left, and though Jesus passed through that town many times, he never returned.
An Indian sage, Bodhidharma, went to China. He always sat facing a wall, never turning toward people. They asked, “What madness is this?” He said, “When I face you, I find you like a wall. There is no point speaking to those without thirst. At least I need not pity a wall. When someone arrives with real thirst, I will turn around.” He kept his face to the wall for nine years.
One day a man named Huineng came and stood behind him. “Turn your face this way,” he said. “Turn toward me.” The expected one had arrived. Bodhidharma said, still facing the wall, “Proof?” The man cut off his arm and placed it in Bodhidharma’s hands. Bodhidharma was startled. “Wait a bit longer,” the man said, “and I will prove it with my head.” Bodhidharma turned at once. “It is enough,” he said, “the man has come.”
If there is even a little thirst for truth, the scattered energies of courage gather at its center. Remember: energy always collects where thirst burns. Thirst itself becomes power. Your thirst is your strength.
You have heard of Shirin and Farhad. Shirin asked Farhad, “Do you love me?” “If I say so, will you believe it? How to prove it?” She said, “Beyond the village stands a mountain. Dig it away.” Farhad took up his spade and went. It is said he removed the mountain before sunrise.
Perhaps that is a legend—but it is truer than fact. Where there is love, where there is thirst, mountains can be moved in even less time. Mountains remain because we lack thirst. Let thirst blaze, and the mountain is no more. Obstacles on the path exist only because thirst does not. When the inner fire of longing burns, the road straightens into a royal way. Difficulties recede, for they are proportionate to our weakness; as strength gathers, weakness falls away, and the hindrances vanish. Mere curiosity can lead at best to metaphysical chatter—not to realization.
This is the difference between East and West. In two and a half millennia the West has researched deeply into thought, yet remained with philosophy—not realization. They engaged in speculation; but these were inquiries, not longings—nothing they would surrender their lives for, nothing for which they would pay with their very being. And one who places anything above truth—know that his thirst has not yet awakened; his time has not yet come.
Look within and decide: has the thirst to seek God—or truth, or that which is—begun to awaken? If not, setting out on a search is premature. Better first to awaken thirst, then begin. Many go searching without thirst, run all their lives, and find nothing.
I meet renunciates who say, “Forty years I have searched; I have found nothing.” I ask, “First find out whether, before searching, thirst was born. Without thirst, the search is futile; even if rivers flow before you, how will you recognize water without thirst? The river may run right here, the waterfall may sing—but without thirst, how will you know it?
Water is recognized not by water, but by thirst. If thirst is within, water is known at once. Without thirst—never. Truth is ever-present. If there is thirst, it is known at once. Without thirst, how will you recognize it?
Truth is known not by scriptures, but by thirst. So first—what kind of thirst? Curiosity alone is not enough. Curiosity must become longing—thirst of the very breath. And how does it become so? By opening your eyes and seeing.
Far away in Italy, a monk was dying. People asked him, “How did you become a monk?” He said, “I opened my eyes—and there was no other way.”
They said, “We too have our eyes open.” He replied, “I have seen very few with open eyes. Most look with closed eyes.”
I say the same: most look with closed eyes. If you truly open your eyes, such thirst will arise to know the hidden behind all this that your whole being will become flames of longing.
To open your eyes means not to stop at what ordinarily appears, but to see the secrets behind the obvious.
When Buddha was born, astrologers told his father: “This child will become either a world emperor or a renunciant.” The household fell into grief and panic. After long waiting, a single son—and he will renounce? The father asked, “How can I prevent him from becoming a monk?” They said, “Only if his eyes do not open.”
Strange counsel: keep his eyes from opening. If they open, no one can avoid renouncing. “How?” They suggested measures; the arrangements were made. Three things were ensured: no suffering should be seen; no old age, disease, or death should be visible; and the boy should have no chance to think.
These three arrangements—you too maintain them. Every person does. Do not see suffering; do not see death; do not allow space to reflect. The wise advised: keep him engrossed in indulgence, so he cannot think. The more absorbed in pleasure from morning to night, the less room for reflection. In the gaps between pleasures, thinking arises.
So his father arranged music, wine, women, luxury—from dawn to night there was no time to think. In the palaces where he lived, no withered flower could be seen; they were removed at night. No old person could enter, no sick person—so that no trace of decay would reach him. Life seemed nothing but blossoms—no thorns.
Until youth, his eyes remained closed.
Many of us grow old with our eyes still closed.
One day he went out to a festival in the town. On the way, for the first time, he saw an old man. “What has happened to him?” he asked his charioteer.
One who has never seen an old man will naturally ask. Had his father asked me, I would have said: let him see suffering and pain from childhood; he will grow accustomed. Because he had never seen old age, when he suddenly saw it, his eyes opened. It was not habitual to him. What his father thought would prevent renunciation, caused it.
He asked three questions: “What has happened to this man? Does this happen to everyone? Will it happen to me?” The charioteer said, “There are no exceptions.” “Turn the chariot back,” Buddha said. “What is the point of a youth festival?”
On the way back, they saw a corpse being carried. “What is this? Will this happen to all? To me?” “Whoever is born must die,” the charioteer said. “Turn back the chariot,” Buddha said. “I have died.”
This is seeing with open eyes. To see someone die and not see your own death there—that is to see with eyes closed. Every day we see death, but think “others die,” never “I.”
Look with open eyes. Whatever you see happening around you—you are not outside of it. It will happen to you.
We say, “Mahavira and Buddha had kingdoms and renounced them; but we seek kingdoms.” If we truly looked, we would ask: those who possess wealth—do they have joy? Those with position and prestige—are they at peace? Yet we go on chasing position and prestige. Blind, we search for the same pits into which others have fallen.
Do not assume we have eyes. To see with open eyes is to be aware of what is everywhere—and to reflect that whatever is happening all around will also happen to me. It is certain. If this becomes clear—if the suffering, the anguish, the condition of existence is truly felt—your being will begin to tremble: “If this is life, it is futile. Is there another life? I must seek it.”
Unless I see that the building is on fire, how will I be desperate to get out? If others say it is burning, I will say, “Just a moment, I will come,” or, “I agree in principle, but I am busy.” But if I see it myself, I cannot remain inside even for a moment.
Open your eyes and you will see: the whole world is aflame. Every person sits upon his own pyre. If you see others upon the pyre, you see wrongly—you yourself are upon it. We all sit on the pyre; its fire slowly engulfs us. One day it will reduce us to ash.
From the very day of birth, death begins. The day we were placed in the cradle, we were placed upon the pyre. The day we stepped on earth, we stepped into the grave. Every moment we are burning—yet we do not look beneath our own feet.
Each instant you sink deeper into death. What you call life is nothing but a daily descent into the grave. It is gradual dying, dying day by day. Seeing this, a great urgency arises to know life. If we mistake this for life, we will miss the life that could be. If we take this as truth and reality, we will miss the truth that is possible.
If this death—this we call life—reveals itself as unreal, then the whole being will fling itself into the search for that hidden, infinite mystery. Then curiosity will not remain—thirst will. Longing will. And such longing alone summons courage and gathers strength.
These are preliminary words. Let inquiry be free—separate from doctrines, debates, sects—impartial. There is no need to believe whether God is or is not. It is enough to be aflame with the desire to know what is. The thirst to know is enough; belief is not needed. Belief comes from others; knowing arises within. What we believe, we borrow; what we know, we are. Religion is not belief; religion is knowing. Religion is not faith; religion is insight. Religion is not received from others; it is desired and discovered by oneself.
So first I said: free yourself from all notions, opinions, sects—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain. These circles are not enough; break these walls. What a blessed day it will be when these walls fall and only the thirst for truth remains. Second: for such inquiry, gather courage—for without courage, you will fear being alone; you will fear freedom from the crowd, society, conditioning. Aloneness needs courage. Yet every person has the strength to take one step. But even that step will be taken only when inquiry is no longer mere intellectual probing but becomes thirst and longing of the very breath. And longing awakens when the eyes open.
Open your eyes and see: every moment, through nature, the divine calls you. Every falling leaf announces your death. Every sunset is news of your own setting. In every dying person is the summons of your own death. All the suffering everywhere is your suffering. If you feel this pain with open eyes, thirst will arise. If you sense the futility of this life, the urge for a meaningful life will awaken. If you recognize this life as mortal, your eyes will naturally lift toward the immortal.
Inquiry, courage, and longing—these are the three keys. Keep them in remembrance. In the days that follow we shall continue with further foundations. At night we will discuss your questions. And all this talk is like using a thorn to remove a thorn—you do not keep the second thorn afterward. If I merely remove a few old notions and plant new ones, I become your enemy. Then nothing has changed. My words are as worthless as those you got from others—do not store them.
We do not wish to found another sect—free you from all sects only to create one more. That would make me your foe. What difference does it make whose sect, whose beliefs? The worth of these words is only this: to pull out the embedded thorn with another thorn—and then throw both away. Do not keep the second thorn.
So do not keep my words. This is only conversation. If they can remove the prior clutter, good. The real thing is practice. At night, after your questions, we will do a few experiments. A thousand thoughts are not worth a particle of practice. Endless reflection is not worth a few moments of silence—thirsting, eyes raised toward truth and the divine. How to turn our face toward light—just as those sunflowers I saw—this we shall explore in meditation over the next three nights. And during the day I will try to remove the thorns within you with another thorn. If some remain, bring them to the question hour at night.
In the end I pray to the divine that all who are on this earth may come to his realization; that all hearts may be filled with his light; that all beings may taste his love and his bliss. In that experience of love and bliss is hidden the knowing that you too are the divine. Until the realization “I am the divine” dawns and pervades every cell and every breath, you are not yet alive—you remain part of dead nature. And the day this realization awakens within you, and suffuses you, there are no words left to say what you then know.
Yet the known and unknown longing of all beings is for that truth—the perfect, the infinite, the beginningless, the eternal hidden in all, not yet revealed. The day it is revealed, life—breath by breath—overflows with joy, music, and radiant beauty. May all taste that beauty—this is my prayer.
You have listened to me with such love and peace; for that I am grateful. Finally, accept my salutations to the divine seated in each of you.
Osho's Commentary
I had just stepped out of the house to come to you. I saw the sunflowers with their faces turned toward the sun, and I remembered: this is the very sorrow of human life, the whole ache, the entire anguish—that we fail to turn our face toward our sun. We stand all our life with our back to truth. Whoever stands with his back to the sun finds that his own shadow becomes his darkness. If your back is to the sun, your shadow will fall before you and your path will be dark. But the one who turns toward the sun—his shadow dissolves behind him, and his eyes and his way grow full of light.
There are two kinds of people in the world: the many who keep their backs to the sun, and the few who turn their faces to it. For those who stand turned away, life is nothing but sorrow, pain, and death—no more than a nightmare of suffering. They only exist in name. Their joy is all in fantasy. Their faith is invested in hopes. Their actual attainments are almost zero. But for those who face the sun—face the divine—an inner revolution takes place. Our sole misfortune is simply this: our back is to the very direction where our face should be.
There are reasons, of course, why what should happen does not, and what should not happen goes on happening. For three days we shall inquire only into this: how to turn our face to the sun. What stops us? What binds us? What states of mind become hurdles to finding and attaining ourselves? We shall look into them—and also how to remove them.
The first thing I want to say is this: only those people, only those souls can turn toward truth who free their minds from all debates, from all the prevailing doctrines and dogmas about truth, from the widely proclaimed institutions, sects, and churches about truth. The one who becomes bound by theism or atheism, who gets entangled in any “isms” about truth, becomes incapable of accessing truth or even lifting his eyes toward it.
This is the most important point, for today the earth is strewn with hundreds of sects—hundreds of claims about truth, each declaring that what they say alone is true and the rest is false. Their proclamations, their denials, their arguments have broken human beings into countless fragments. And the moment you accept any one of these notions, the mind is bound, narrowed, and it becomes impossible to lift your eyes toward the boundless.
You too must be standing somewhere—behind some sect, some religion, some denomination; a follower of some temple or church. Since childhood you accepted ideas that others poured into you—what society and sect propagated and imprinted on your mind. Remember, if you are bound in any way to any side, whatever else may happen, the experience of truth will not.
How can one who ties himself to a notion know that truth for which no notion is possible? One who moors himself to the shore—how will he sail that ocean where all shores must be let go? Without impartiality, no one can be in favor of truth. The greatest obstacle to the freedom of inquiry is precisely these sanctioned, traditional dogmas. Scriptures and words obstruct. Ideas and ideologies become chains—when what is needed is the mind’s release. Upon the mind, no bondage, no imposition should remain.
If the eyes are filled with prior images, I will be unable to see you. If a mirror clutches at pictures, it cannot reflect others. A society that accepts without knowing truth is unable to reflect it. The mind must be utterly innocent, unbiased, and clear. Only then can the eyes lift in that direction; only then can the boat of awareness set sail toward the ocean of bliss.
So first: let inquiry be free and independent. Today, there are very few on this earth whose inquiry is truly free.
I heard a little story. Entirely fanciful—but worth pondering.
A Sufi fakir once dreamt that he had reached heaven. A great celebration was underway. The roads were adorned, countless lamps lit, flowers lined the pathways, palaces and avenues glowed. He asked passersby, “What is today? Is there a ceremony?” He was told, “It is God’s birthday, and his procession is about to begin.” He stood near a tree.
A magnificent parade began. In front, astride a horse, sat a luminous being. “Who is this radiant one?” he asked. “This is Jesus the Christ,” they said, “followed by his millions upon millions of devotees.” After him came another exalted figure. “And who is this?” “This is Prophet Muhammad,” they replied, “with his multitudes behind him.” Then came Buddha, then Mahavira, then Zarathustra, then Confucius—and behind each, uncountable followers. When the entire procession had passed, at the very end came a frail, poor-looking old man on a horse—with no one behind him. “Who is this?” he asked. “This,” they said, “is God himself.” Startled, he awoke—shaken.
What was a dream then is reality now on this earth. People are with Christ, with Buddha, with Rama, with Krishna—but with God, none. One who is with God needs no intermediary. And remember: one who is with God is inevitably with Christ—but one who is with Christ is not necessarily with God. One who is with God is with Rama, Krishna, Buddha, Mahavira altogether—but one who is with them is not necessarily with God.
Also remember: the one who is “with” Buddha and “against” Krishna, who is “with” Christ and “against” Rama, who is “with” Mahavira and “against” Confucius—he can never be with God. One who is with God is with them all at once.
Let this be remembered within: truth cannot be many; truth can only be one. And if you would be with that one truth, then you must renounce the many notions that parade under its name. Before anyone can be religious, he must stop being a Jain, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian. Before one can be religious, he must step aside from the sects that pose as religion. The farther from them, the closer to religion; the more entangled in them, the farther from it. This is natural—and natural as well because a truth accepted from others is not truth for you.
Of all things concerning truth, the most vital is this: only self-experienced truth is truth; second-hand truth turns false. No one can hand over truth to another. Truth is not a property that can be transferred. It cannot be borrowed, stolen, or begged. Truth is the one treasure that must be gained by oneself—there is no other way.
Long ago, in a certain kingdom, a young man performed such daring deeds that the emperor was overjoyed. He promised him the highest office and the highest honor of the realm—a dignity not conferred for three hundred years. The youth should have been pleased. But people told the king he was not. The king summoned him: “For three centuries no one has received this honor. I am bestowing the highest glory of the kingdom upon you. Yet I hear you are not pleased?”
The young man said, “I do not want wealth, nor office, nor fame. I ask for something else. If the kingdom can grant it, I will be fulfilled.” The king said, “Ask. I will give it—even if it takes the whole power of the state.”
The youth said, “Give me truth.” The king fell silent for a moment. “Forgive me,” he said, “I do not have it to give. I myself do not know truth, and all the power and treasure of my kingdom cannot buy it. For if kingdoms could purchase truth, then those who renounced kingdoms to seek it were fools. If wealth could buy truth, then those who kicked wealth aside to pursue it were mad. And if truth could be had by asking, then the ascetics who labored in austerity were in error.
“No—truth cannot be asked for. I see no way anyone can give it. I do not have truth—how could I give it? But I have heard of a sage in the mountains who has attained. I will bow at his feet and plead on your behalf.”
The king took the youth into the mountains. Bowing, he prayed, “I pledged to grant whatever this young man asked, but he has asked for truth—and I do not have it. I have come to you: please give him truth.” The sage fell silent as the king had, then said, “Truth is the one thing no one can give another. The day truth can be given, it will cease to be truth. Truth is not given; it must be realized.”
Yet the “truths” we clutch are not realized, but received. Whatever religions you have “accepted,” you did not discover; they were handed down—by tradition, by parents, by culture. What is handed down cannot be truth. Most people spend a lifetime living by such donated “truth”—there is no greater deprivation.
Remember it well: whatever is given to you cannot be truth. The first step toward truth is to reject what has been given. If atheism has been given, drop atheism; if theism has been given, drop theism.
In Soviet Russia, two hundred million people have, for forty years, been trained in atheism. Through education, propaganda, literature, they teach their youth that there is no God, no soul; liberation and religion are opium. Forty years of propaganda have convinced two hundred million minds that atheism is truth and theism is folly.
You will say their view is wrong; I say: your view is also wrong. If forty years of propaganda can install atheism, then your theism too can be installed by four thousand years of propaganda. Their atheism is hollow; your theism is no less so. That is why you may call yourself religious, attend temple and worship—yet no ray of religion appears in your life. No one else’s donated religion can ever be alive in you; it remains only a mental stance, an opinion.
Inquiry must be free. Free from what? From conditioning, from culture, from sect. Those bound by conditioning, by society, by creed—their feet are pegged to the ground; they cannot fly the open sky. Their boat is chained to the shore; they cannot voyage the ocean of bliss.
People flee society and become renunciates. I know hundreds who left home and family. When I meet them, I say: running away won’t help if society’s imprints sit in the mind; then society sits inside you. Leaving parents is useless if their beliefs live within you—you are still with them.
Leaving society does not mean leaving the village for the forest. It means dropping the beliefs society has given you. This takes great courage. Inquiry is the greatest courage in this world. Leaving your parents is not as hard as leaving their conditioning. Why? Because we fear being alone. In the crowd, we are not alone—thousands stand with us. The crowd convinces us: if so many believe it, it must be true. Crowds can validate even foolishness. With a crowd behind them, people do what they would never do alone.
The greatest crimes in history were committed not by individuals alone but by crowds. A crowd can sin because it seems what is being said must be right—so many agree; can so many be wrong? If a religion says, “Let us attack that country; this is holy war; we go to spread the faith,” an individual told to kill thousands might hesitate, might reflect. But seeing millions beside him, he drops his own discernment: so many can’t be mistaken. That is why we fear leaving the crowd—because leaving means reconsidering our whole way of seeing. So people cling to crowds. Everyone clings.
But remember: one who is not ready to be alone—free of the crowd—should give up on truth. Truth’s path is utterly solitary. People think “alone” means withdrawing to the mountains, or leaving home. Alone means: drop the crowd’s support. Free of the crowd, you become alone. Inquiry requires courage; courage is the condition for truth. Without courage we crawl on the earth; we cannot soar. Without courage we lug around borrowed truths; we cannot seek our own. And one who has no truth of his own—does he truly live? His life has no meaning, no significance. Only when truth is yours does light dawn, for truth, like a lamp, illumines the whole of life.
So the first key: free your inquiry from life’s conditioning, from cultural imprints; make it your own, personal; understand truth as a direct relationship between you and the divine. Your family, your sect, your community have no place in it. This is the first breaking of chains.
The first key was freedom of inquiry.
Second—inseparable from inquiry—is the awakening of courage.
We are weak, impoverished, powerless. Our weakness, poverty, and lack of courage together block our movement, our ascent. But if we can gather even a little courage, a little strength, a little daring—movement becomes possible.
And know this: however weak one may be, everyone can take one step. Perhaps not a thousand miles, perhaps not the Himalayas—but one step anyone can take. If we summon a little courage, one step is certain.
And whoever can take one step can climb the Himalayas; whoever can take one step can walk thousands of miles. In this universe, there is never more than one step to take—no one has ever taken two at once. It is only ever one step. The strength to take one step is enough—and that much strength every living person has. It only needs to be gathered.
Our courage, our energy, lies scattered. We fail to collect it. Why? Perhaps because our “inquiry” has never become thirst—only a mental itch. Many ask me, “Is there a God?” “Is there a soul?” If I say, “Will you walk a hundred steps with me, then I will answer,” they say, “I don’t have the time.” If I say, “Will you stay with me for three days?” they say, “We don’t have three days.”
An inquiry that is merely intellectual—a cerebral scratching—cannot muster courage. Courage gathers only in those whose inquiry becomes longing, thirst.
A young man once went to Buddha: “I have come to know truth.” Buddha asked, “What price will you pay? Truth can be known—but what will you give?” Another went to Christ: “Is there God?” Jesus said, “You can know—but what price will you pay? Go, give away all your possessions and return; I assure you, you will be led toward truth.” The young man said, “Give away my wealth? Then I must reconsider!” He left, and though Jesus passed through that town many times, he never returned.
An Indian sage, Bodhidharma, went to China. He always sat facing a wall, never turning toward people. They asked, “What madness is this?” He said, “When I face you, I find you like a wall. There is no point speaking to those without thirst. At least I need not pity a wall. When someone arrives with real thirst, I will turn around.” He kept his face to the wall for nine years.
One day a man named Huineng came and stood behind him. “Turn your face this way,” he said. “Turn toward me.” The expected one had arrived. Bodhidharma said, still facing the wall, “Proof?” The man cut off his arm and placed it in Bodhidharma’s hands. Bodhidharma was startled. “Wait a bit longer,” the man said, “and I will prove it with my head.” Bodhidharma turned at once. “It is enough,” he said, “the man has come.”
If there is even a little thirst for truth, the scattered energies of courage gather at its center. Remember: energy always collects where thirst burns. Thirst itself becomes power. Your thirst is your strength.
You have heard of Shirin and Farhad. Shirin asked Farhad, “Do you love me?” “If I say so, will you believe it? How to prove it?” She said, “Beyond the village stands a mountain. Dig it away.” Farhad took up his spade and went. It is said he removed the mountain before sunrise.
Perhaps that is a legend—but it is truer than fact. Where there is love, where there is thirst, mountains can be moved in even less time. Mountains remain because we lack thirst. Let thirst blaze, and the mountain is no more. Obstacles on the path exist only because thirst does not. When the inner fire of longing burns, the road straightens into a royal way. Difficulties recede, for they are proportionate to our weakness; as strength gathers, weakness falls away, and the hindrances vanish. Mere curiosity can lead at best to metaphysical chatter—not to realization.
This is the difference between East and West. In two and a half millennia the West has researched deeply into thought, yet remained with philosophy—not realization. They engaged in speculation; but these were inquiries, not longings—nothing they would surrender their lives for, nothing for which they would pay with their very being. And one who places anything above truth—know that his thirst has not yet awakened; his time has not yet come.
Look within and decide: has the thirst to seek God—or truth, or that which is—begun to awaken? If not, setting out on a search is premature. Better first to awaken thirst, then begin. Many go searching without thirst, run all their lives, and find nothing.
I meet renunciates who say, “Forty years I have searched; I have found nothing.” I ask, “First find out whether, before searching, thirst was born. Without thirst, the search is futile; even if rivers flow before you, how will you recognize water without thirst? The river may run right here, the waterfall may sing—but without thirst, how will you know it?
Water is recognized not by water, but by thirst. If thirst is within, water is known at once. Without thirst—never. Truth is ever-present. If there is thirst, it is known at once. Without thirst, how will you recognize it?
Truth is known not by scriptures, but by thirst. So first—what kind of thirst? Curiosity alone is not enough. Curiosity must become longing—thirst of the very breath. And how does it become so? By opening your eyes and seeing.
Far away in Italy, a monk was dying. People asked him, “How did you become a monk?” He said, “I opened my eyes—and there was no other way.”
They said, “We too have our eyes open.” He replied, “I have seen very few with open eyes. Most look with closed eyes.”
I say the same: most look with closed eyes. If you truly open your eyes, such thirst will arise to know the hidden behind all this that your whole being will become flames of longing.
To open your eyes means not to stop at what ordinarily appears, but to see the secrets behind the obvious.
When Buddha was born, astrologers told his father: “This child will become either a world emperor or a renunciant.” The household fell into grief and panic. After long waiting, a single son—and he will renounce? The father asked, “How can I prevent him from becoming a monk?” They said, “Only if his eyes do not open.”
Strange counsel: keep his eyes from opening. If they open, no one can avoid renouncing. “How?” They suggested measures; the arrangements were made. Three things were ensured: no suffering should be seen; no old age, disease, or death should be visible; and the boy should have no chance to think.
These three arrangements—you too maintain them. Every person does. Do not see suffering; do not see death; do not allow space to reflect. The wise advised: keep him engrossed in indulgence, so he cannot think. The more absorbed in pleasure from morning to night, the less room for reflection. In the gaps between pleasures, thinking arises.
So his father arranged music, wine, women, luxury—from dawn to night there was no time to think. In the palaces where he lived, no withered flower could be seen; they were removed at night. No old person could enter, no sick person—so that no trace of decay would reach him. Life seemed nothing but blossoms—no thorns.
Until youth, his eyes remained closed.
Many of us grow old with our eyes still closed.
One day he went out to a festival in the town. On the way, for the first time, he saw an old man. “What has happened to him?” he asked his charioteer.
One who has never seen an old man will naturally ask. Had his father asked me, I would have said: let him see suffering and pain from childhood; he will grow accustomed. Because he had never seen old age, when he suddenly saw it, his eyes opened. It was not habitual to him. What his father thought would prevent renunciation, caused it.
He asked three questions: “What has happened to this man? Does this happen to everyone? Will it happen to me?” The charioteer said, “There are no exceptions.” “Turn the chariot back,” Buddha said. “What is the point of a youth festival?”
On the way back, they saw a corpse being carried. “What is this? Will this happen to all? To me?” “Whoever is born must die,” the charioteer said. “Turn back the chariot,” Buddha said. “I have died.”
This is seeing with open eyes. To see someone die and not see your own death there—that is to see with eyes closed. Every day we see death, but think “others die,” never “I.”
Look with open eyes. Whatever you see happening around you—you are not outside of it. It will happen to you.
We say, “Mahavira and Buddha had kingdoms and renounced them; but we seek kingdoms.” If we truly looked, we would ask: those who possess wealth—do they have joy? Those with position and prestige—are they at peace? Yet we go on chasing position and prestige. Blind, we search for the same pits into which others have fallen.
Do not assume we have eyes. To see with open eyes is to be aware of what is everywhere—and to reflect that whatever is happening all around will also happen to me. It is certain. If this becomes clear—if the suffering, the anguish, the condition of existence is truly felt—your being will begin to tremble: “If this is life, it is futile. Is there another life? I must seek it.”
Unless I see that the building is on fire, how will I be desperate to get out? If others say it is burning, I will say, “Just a moment, I will come,” or, “I agree in principle, but I am busy.” But if I see it myself, I cannot remain inside even for a moment.
Open your eyes and you will see: the whole world is aflame. Every person sits upon his own pyre. If you see others upon the pyre, you see wrongly—you yourself are upon it. We all sit on the pyre; its fire slowly engulfs us. One day it will reduce us to ash.
From the very day of birth, death begins. The day we were placed in the cradle, we were placed upon the pyre. The day we stepped on earth, we stepped into the grave. Every moment we are burning—yet we do not look beneath our own feet.
Each instant you sink deeper into death. What you call life is nothing but a daily descent into the grave. It is gradual dying, dying day by day. Seeing this, a great urgency arises to know life. If we mistake this for life, we will miss the life that could be. If we take this as truth and reality, we will miss the truth that is possible.
If this death—this we call life—reveals itself as unreal, then the whole being will fling itself into the search for that hidden, infinite mystery. Then curiosity will not remain—thirst will. Longing will. And such longing alone summons courage and gathers strength.
These are preliminary words. Let inquiry be free—separate from doctrines, debates, sects—impartial. There is no need to believe whether God is or is not. It is enough to be aflame with the desire to know what is. The thirst to know is enough; belief is not needed. Belief comes from others; knowing arises within. What we believe, we borrow; what we know, we are. Religion is not belief; religion is knowing. Religion is not faith; religion is insight. Religion is not received from others; it is desired and discovered by oneself.
So first I said: free yourself from all notions, opinions, sects—Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Buddhist, Jain. These circles are not enough; break these walls. What a blessed day it will be when these walls fall and only the thirst for truth remains. Second: for such inquiry, gather courage—for without courage, you will fear being alone; you will fear freedom from the crowd, society, conditioning. Aloneness needs courage. Yet every person has the strength to take one step. But even that step will be taken only when inquiry is no longer mere intellectual probing but becomes thirst and longing of the very breath. And longing awakens when the eyes open.
Open your eyes and see: every moment, through nature, the divine calls you. Every falling leaf announces your death. Every sunset is news of your own setting. In every dying person is the summons of your own death. All the suffering everywhere is your suffering. If you feel this pain with open eyes, thirst will arise. If you sense the futility of this life, the urge for a meaningful life will awaken. If you recognize this life as mortal, your eyes will naturally lift toward the immortal.
Inquiry, courage, and longing—these are the three keys. Keep them in remembrance. In the days that follow we shall continue with further foundations. At night we will discuss your questions. And all this talk is like using a thorn to remove a thorn—you do not keep the second thorn afterward. If I merely remove a few old notions and plant new ones, I become your enemy. Then nothing has changed. My words are as worthless as those you got from others—do not store them.
We do not wish to found another sect—free you from all sects only to create one more. That would make me your foe. What difference does it make whose sect, whose beliefs? The worth of these words is only this: to pull out the embedded thorn with another thorn—and then throw both away. Do not keep the second thorn.
So do not keep my words. This is only conversation. If they can remove the prior clutter, good. The real thing is practice. At night, after your questions, we will do a few experiments. A thousand thoughts are not worth a particle of practice. Endless reflection is not worth a few moments of silence—thirsting, eyes raised toward truth and the divine. How to turn our face toward light—just as those sunflowers I saw—this we shall explore in meditation over the next three nights. And during the day I will try to remove the thorns within you with another thorn. If some remain, bring them to the question hour at night.
In the end I pray to the divine that all who are on this earth may come to his realization; that all hearts may be filled with his light; that all beings may taste his love and his bliss. In that experience of love and bliss is hidden the knowing that you too are the divine. Until the realization “I am the divine” dawns and pervades every cell and every breath, you are not yet alive—you remain part of dead nature. And the day this realization awakens within you, and suffuses you, there are no words left to say what you then know.
Yet the known and unknown longing of all beings is for that truth—the perfect, the infinite, the beginningless, the eternal hidden in all, not yet revealed. The day it is revealed, life—breath by breath—overflows with joy, music, and radiant beauty. May all taste that beauty—this is my prayer.
You have listened to me with such love and peace; for that I am grateful. Finally, accept my salutations to the divine seated in each of you.